


Escape to the Country

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [50]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Fluff, Holiday, Home, M/M, Sherlock out of London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John take a trip to the country to visit Sibyl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

"The only problem with the house is that they don't sell souvenir magnets," Sherlock commented.

John looked up at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Souvenir magnets, John. Like the ones on the fridge. We have one for England, and one for Scotland. We could start a collection, one for every place we go."

John gave Sherlock a suspicious look but the detective seemed entirely serious. And he was grinning.

"We don't really go anywhere," John pointed out. "And your parents' house is still in England."

"We go loads of places!" Sherlock protested.

"Loads of places around London," John amended. "And since we have a Union Jack magnet, that pretty much covers all of them. Plus, what do you want, a tiny photo of the house on a magnet?"

"Good idea," Sherlock said thoughtfully and John instantly regretted having suggested it, because there were probably services online where one could upload a photograph and have it made into a magnet. He'd be lucky, now, if they didn't start having magnets of corpses from Sherlock's cases although it was possible – _just_ possible – that Sherlock would avoid that because of Josephine. But it could go either way.

"Well, maybe we just need to go somewhere else?" John suggested.

"We can't go anywhere else, John. We've already got the train tickets."

"I don't mean now, Sherlock. I mean maybe in the spring, or summer. You know, I've never been to France."

"You don't speak French."

"Right, I'm _sure_ no one in France speaks English. Just like no one here speaks French. Least of all you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Excessive sarcasm aside, _John_ , if you wanted to go on a trip, you need only have said so. I'm sure we can manage a trip to France, or anywhere else you'd like to go. Now come on, there's the train."

"Surely there must be magnets for London itself," Sherlock mused, still stuck on the topic for some reason. "It stands to reason that other larger centres in England should have them. Why not Buckinghamshire?"

"I don't know," John said. "Why not? Maybe we just haven't found any? It's not as though we spent any time in souvenir shops up there."

"Something to do this time, then," Sherlock said.

"If that's what you want," John replied, boarding the train behind his husband. They found a small compartment and John put his bag on the overhead rack while Sherlock just lay his down on the floor, but stowed his violin case carefully on the rack, and sprawled all over two of the seats on his back, still bundled in his coat.

"Not allowed to sit with you, am I?"

Sherlock turned his head toward John and gave a mild scowl.

"Take up as much room as you can," he instructed. "I'd rather not have to share the compartment with strangers."

John sighed but did as bidden, stretching out on the seat so his back was resting on the wall, his legs stretched out on the seat in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He glanced over at Sherlock again who was, unsurprisingly, on his phone.

"This trip was your idea," John reminded him. "No cases."

"I'm looking for souvenir shops near the house!" Sherlock protested, then held out his phone as proof and John leaned over a bit to see the small screen. His husband was, in fact, telling the truth.

"What's got into you?" John asked.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock replied.

"You seem positively giddy. You've never been this excited to visit your parents before."

Sherlock looked away from his phone – astonishing enough in its own right – and gave John a bright grin.

"Mycroft is in Monaco."

John rolled his eyes but smiled, shaking his head.

"You know, I think you might have waited your entire life just to say that sentence."

"It does have a nice ring to it, you've got to admit."

"It's brilliant," John agreed, more so because it very likely meant that his brother-in-law would not be returning to England just for the purposes of dropping into the Buckinghamshire family home. It was, indeed, the first time they'd been up there that Mycroft hadn't also been visiting, usually because he arranged the trips and then manipulated Sherlock into going, which meant John going as well. Of course, Sherlock knew he was being manipulated but went anyway, which just proved to John that neither brother was quite as reluctant to go home as they pretended.

John knew Sherlock had chosen this weekend in particular, sandwiched between their anniversary and Christmas. He'd suggested going up for Christmas and Sherlock had dismissed that, saying he preferred Christmases at home, their home. John had no problems with that, because he did, too. He'd been suggesting more out of some vague sense of marital duty, to let Sherlock know it was all right by him if that was what the other man wanted to do.

But he was glad Sherlock wanted to stay in London.

"Found some," Sherlock said after a minute and passed his phone again to John.

"Well done," John replied and Sherlock snorted at being praised like a small child. "No, really, your ability to use the maps function is astounding, Sherlock. It absolutely saves us from going into town and actually just walking around the main street, which is, I note, where the whole three shops are. Precisely where any rational person would have first looked."

"Oh, yes, thank you, John. Your confidence in my abilities is staggering. Maybe I'll just send you down to the shops to wander about in the cold and pick some things up."

"Sorry, this would be different than the rest of our lives how?"

"It would be in Buckinghamshire, not London. Obviously."

John laughed and heard the conductors hollering "all aboard!" across the station outside the window. A few minutes later, there was the familiar lurch of such a large vehicle pulling itself into motion. John sat up, looking out the window, even though they were still in the station and the view was composed entirely of the platform and the passengers waiting on the other side for another train not yet arrived.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked. "Someone might come in and see an empty seat."

John rolled his eyes and switched his position so his back was against the inner wall of the compartment and he could see out the window.

Sherlock pulled a face at him.

"And don't sit like that."

"What, you've got your feet on the seat, too!"

"No, now you're farther away from me."

"I'm exactly the same distance as I was from you before, and now I'm facing you, so you can shut up and enjoy the view or turn yourself round, too."

He tossed the detective's phone back as the door was pulled open and a conductor came in.

"Tickets," he said crisply.

Sherlock began patting his pockets, an increasingly panicked look crossing his features, and John sighed, pulling out their two outward-bound tickets.

"I have them," he said.

"Ah," Sherlock replied, then flashed him another bright smile. "Brilliant. Have I ever mentioned that I love you?"

"I think you might have expressed that opinion on one or two occasions, yes," John replied as the conductor cancelled their tickets, handing them back, not quite repressing a smile.

"Good trip, gents," he said.

"Thanks," John replied, putting the tickets back in his pocket. Sherlock had actually put his phone away and smiled when the door was pulled closed again. John heard the rattle of the door in the next compartment being opened and heard the request for tickets again, faintly.

"Good," Sherlock said after about five minutes. "Right. Now come sit over here."

"What if someone's still looking for a seat?" John asked.

"Then we'll talk about corpses until they leave," Sherlock said matter-of-factly and John was certain that Sherlock would do just this. "Besides, I'm cold."

"You're not cold, it's perfectly warm in here and you're in your coat."

Sherlock took his coat off, tossing it carelessly on the floor.

"Now I'm cold."

"No, you're not."

"Fine, I'm not, but it usually works to get you to sit with me."

"You could come sit with me," John pointed out. "Your legs are longer. It's an easier distance for you to cross."

"And you invaded Afghanistan. Surely navigating a patch of carpet inside a train compartment is well within your physical abilities."

John held out for a moment, but knew he'd lost. Sherlock waited with an expression that told John he was counting down in his head and John sighed, pushing himself to his feet, stowing Sherlock's coat – since it was better than leaving it all over the floor – and then dislodging Sherlock's legs so he could sit down.

Sherlock immediately switched his position so he was facing the other way and shot a scowl at John.

"Swing your legs up," he commanded.

"I thought I was sitting with you. Not having you sit all over me."

"This is better."

With a sigh, John managed to prop his legs up, back against the wall again, and Sherlock snuggled up against him, back to John's chest, resting between the doctor's legs, effectively pinning John's right leg against the back of the seats. It would probably go numb within five minutes, but pointing this out to Sherlock would just fall on deaf ears.

"Comfortable?" he asked when Sherlock finally finished wiggling around and settled down.

"Oh, very," Sherlock replied, tilting his head back somewhat, his dark hair kinking up against John's coat. John pressed a brief kiss on his forehead and Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily.

"Good," John said, even though he doubted he himself would be for very long. It was only about a two-hour train ride, and his in-law's house was more than a little well appointed, and they'd have a considerable amount of privacy. He entirely intended to take advantage of this and to have Sherlock put those dextrous hands to good use with a full body rubdown after they'd arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a car waiting for them when they arrived at the train station and George, the butler, waiting for them when they arrived at the house. He despatched a maid with their bags and John was amazed at how quickly Sherlock's attitude changed when he was at in the house in which he'd grown up. He was more than willing to grouch at John for simply moving his keys back at the flat, but here, he accepted that someone would see to his bags without batting an eyelash or even appearing to consider that this was unusual.

John supposed that, for Sherlock, it wasn't. It still was for him, though.

"Good evening," George said smoothly. "Your mother has asked me to inform you that she is currently visiting the Heathcots and will return by seven. We will therefore be serving dinner at seven-thirty. Do you require anything in the meantime?"

Sherlock glanced at John, who shook his head.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Just show us to the rooms."

It amazed John, too, that the butler had to do this, because they knew exactly where the small set of rooms was, since they stayed in it each time they came. And George was well aware of it, too. It seemed to be just something they had to do. John resisted the impulse to tip the man, like a hotel concierge. He was certain this would be inappropriate.

He wished there was some sort of manual for staying there.

Their bags were already there, carefully deposited on luggage racks in the bedroom. The rooms had obviously been aired, but enough time had passed that the chill was no longer in the air, only the freshness remained, and the curtains were drawn on all the windows against the early December nights.

John checked his watch; they had a little over two and a half hours before Sibyl returned. He'd become used to the fact that he could show up and not be greeted by his in-laws while they met previous social or business obligations. Sherlock seemed to take this in stride, and their trip had been fairly last minute. He'd noted that George hadn't said where William was, which probably meant the elder Holmes man was working.

John pressed his thumbs against his spine, bracing himself and leaning back, hearing the crack rattle up his spine. Sherlock made a mild face at him, but didn't comment, and it wasn't as though he didn't do this to his neck on a regular basis.

"Right," John said, divesting himself of his coat and shoes, hanging the coat up neatly in the closet and storing the shoes beneath it. He stripped off his jumper while Sherlock put away his coat and scarf as well, then smiled at the quiet "oomph" sound his husband made when the jumper hit him square in the chest and he caught it instinctively.

"In a bit of a hurry, aren't you?" Sherlock commented, arching an eyebrow. "We have over two hours, you know."

"It's just four-thirty now," John said. "We have two and a half hours."

"No, she'll be home at six-thirty. She always leaves the Heathcots half an hour earlier than she says she will. And then she'll come straight here to see us."

"Why would she always leave half an hour early?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Don't know. Don't know them. Perhaps they're insufferable?"

"You'd get one with them well, then."

"You seem to suffer me very well," Sherlock pointed out.

"Practice," John replied. "And I'm in a hurry to get you to work that stiffness out of my body, because you might have been comfortable on the train, but I wasn't."

Sherlock pretended a hurt look.

"You could have said," he protested.

"No, I'd rather just make you do this. Come on."

John headed into the bedroom, Sherlock behind him, still carrying the jumper. Without preamble, John stripped and lay face down on the bed, crossing his arms and pillowing his chin on them. Sherlock aimed the jumper at him and John grunted, tossing it aside.

"You're very demanding, aren't you? And a bit sure of yourself."

"Sorry?" John asked, craning to look over his right shoulder at Sherlock, who had removed his own shirt and was heading into the bathroom. "We're talking about me, are we?"

"If you don't behave, you might not get what you want," Sherlock warned, coming back out with a tube of lotion, waving it threateningly at John.

"Well, then, neither will you. Give and take."

"It's hardly fair to attempt to trade a massage for sex when you enjoy the sex just as much, John."

"You're always a paragon of fairness, aren't you, Sherlock?" John sniggered. "Less talking, more massaging. What if my shoulder starts hurting? Then I won't want to shag at all."

"Your shoulder isn't hurting," Sherlock said with a dramatic sigh, climbing up on the bed and settling himself neatly on the backs of John's thighs, making the doctor grunt. "If it were, I'd have noticed."

Despite his protest, Sherlock pulled off his wedding ring, setting it aside on the nightstand with a quiet clatter, chafed some lotion onto his hands and set to work, pressing the heels of his hands into the small of John's back on either side of his spine and pushing them upward slowly until he reached John's shoulders, then pulling out toward John's arms, taking more care with the left shoulder, then running his fingertips back down John's back and starting the process again.

John bit his lower lip but couldn't repress a groan at the stiffness in his back and the knots loosening slightly under Sherlock's hands.

"Bit of a pushover, you are," Sherlock commented, a man whom John could pin into place simply by stroking the back of his head. John snorted again, then sighed and felt Sherlock smile knowingly without seeing it.

Sherlock worked his way up John's back to his shoulders, carefully, using the outside edge of his right hand against John's right shoulder, using his fingers only on John's left. Somehow, he kept these movements smooth and balanced, pausing only to reapply lotion to his hands to keep from dragging dry skin against dry skin.

He moved onto John's arms, one at a time, long slow motions, pressing his palms into the muscles and John groaned quietly as his arms were manipulated and stretched gently. Sherlock worked his thumbs in circles on John's palms and the heels of his hands, applying more pressure and John bit his lip again, always amazed at how the small muscles in his hands could be so stiff. He had no idea how or where Sherlock had learned any of this, but he'd probably looked up techniques online and then applied his knowledge of human anatomy to come up with what amounted to a very decent practice.

He worked down John's legs, same way as with the arms, and John drowsed, half-asleep. He never had to tell Sherlock to either deepen or lighten the pressure; Sherlock read that in the faint twitches in John's muscles, small involuntary shifts, quiet noises.

After awhile, when John's body felt like jelly in a very pleasant way, he felt Sherlock dislodge his weight from the bed and heard his bag being unzipped but barely noticed, drifting off, warm and relaxed. A moment later, Sherlock was back and something small landed beside John with a faint puff on the duvet and the doctor heard the quiet clink of Sherlock picking his ring back up. He resumed his attentions and John shook himself mentally back awake. He was fairly certain that standard therapeutic massage techniques did not involve teeth.

"Oh, good, you _are_ paying attention," Sherlock murmured.

"Difficult not to," John commented and felt Sherlock grin against his back.

"Here?" the detective asked. "Or in the shower?"

"Mm," John sighed, somewhat regretfully, because the shower was hands down his favourite place to shag with Sherlock. "Don't think I could get up after that."

"Hmm," Sherlock said noncommittally. "Well, at very least, you could attempt rolling over."

John grinned and did just that, reaching up to pull Sherlock down into a kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

At six-thirty, they were both showered, freshly dressed, and presentable when Sibyl knocked on the door and Sherlock let her in, smiling.

"Hello, darling," she said and Sherlock bent down, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, which she returned.

"Hello, Mum," he replied and John grinned. There was a warmth that slipped into his voice when he spoke to her that John rarely heard.

Sibyl stepped inside, movements all grace and poise, and smiled at John as Sherlock shut the door behind her again. John stood from the sofa that was bathed in the lamps they'd lit around the sitting room and crossed the room to greet her, receiving a kiss on each cheek.

"Hello, John," she said warmly.

"Sibyl, wonderful to see you."

"And you. You're looking very well, quite relaxed. I see my son's been taking good care of you."

John reddened slightly and ignored Sherlock's laughter; it should have come as no surprise to him that Sherlock's mother was adept at reading people as well, especially since he was so used to Sherlock's rapid and accurate assessments based on a look or a stance or a word.

"Can't complain," John said.

"And you?" Sibyl asked, turning back to Sherlock, who had slumped onto the couch and arched an eyebrow at him. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

It was John's turn to chuckle as Sherlock groaned.

"I'm fine, Mum," he sighed and she raised her eyebrows at John, her grey eyes, the same shade as both of her sons', asking a silent question.

"Oh yes, believe John, not me."

"He is a doctor, darling. And far less inclined to lie about your health than you are."

"I don't lie!" Sherlock protested.

"It is entirely lying to say you're fine if you're not fine," Sibyl pointed out, an amused expression dancing in her eyes.

"He's much better," John said. "Still insufferable, though."

"Hmm," Sibyl said, moving behind the couch. "I suspect that isn't the result of the concussions. He always had a tendency for stubbornness. He began walking when he was eight months old, I think solely for the purpose of getting himself into more trouble. Mycroft didn't walk until he was over twelve months old."

"And I'm sure he misbehaved, too," Sherlock sniffed.

"Not quite as much as you. Let me see your head."

"Mum!" Sherlock protested, glaring at John's wide grin, batting at Sibyl's hands.

"Yes?" she enquired and he dropped his hands into his lap, scrunching up his face, slouching down farther, but suffering her examination of his healing injuries. John had removed the stitches himself, and the wounds were much better, although occasionally Sherlock complained about itchiness. Less so now, which could be a good sign, although that might have more to do with John threatening to tie Sherlock's arms down if he didn't stop scratching at the cuts.

John was amazed at how Sherlock reacted to Sibyl and wished he knew the secret, but was beginning to understand why Tricia was so able to deal with him. Both women simply ordered him around and assumed without question he'd follow those orders, and somehow it worked. John had never found this worked for him, so suspected that Sherlock had some soft spot for women – at least women he knew and liked – that he would never admit to.

"Well, it is looking much better," Sibyl admitted, and John didn't fail to notice the tenderness with which she touched her son and how Sherlock looked relaxed by it, despite his typical protesting. It was amazing to John how much less reserved she was when it was only the three of them – and he supposed the same when it was only Sherlock and Sibyl – although he couldn't imagine either of them being warm in anyone else's presence.

Standards to maintain, no doubt. Even if Sherlock wouldn't cop to it.

"Yes, I did say. So did John."

"I'm your mother. I appreciate being able to see it for myself. Although I do trust John's medical opinion."

Sherlock huffed and John grinned. Sibyl came back around and sat in one of the wingback chairs, and John sat down beside Sherlock, who absently took his hand, interlacing their fingers, rubbing his thumb on the back of John's hand. John saw Sibyl note this and the approval in her eyes – when she had first met John, shortly after he and Sherlock had got together, she'd told him flat out that she thought he was precisely what her son needed.

A far cry from Mycroft, who'd made fairly straightforward comments about what would happen to John if John hurt Sherlock, as though John had some sort of nefarious scheme to shag Sherlock and then just leave him.

It was nice to be trusted, particularly with something so valuable as Sherlock's heart, since getting him even to admit to having one had been an accomplishment. Especially good to have had that trust early on, when Sherlock as he was then probably would have dealt very poorly – in a very specialized and frightening way – with rejection or pain.

"How are the Bainbridge cases progressing?" Sibyl asked and John did not at all miss the hard glint in her eye when she said the dead serial killer's name – it was less about the victims he'd killed and more about the one he'd attacked and left for dead. John was certain Sherlock had missed this, though. He just wasn't good at people caring for him, although he'd improved. It still took him by surprise.

"Three more bodies," Sherlock said. "Two in Bexley, one in Enfield."

Sibyl sighed and looked at John, who gave her a helpless look in return.

"I don't approve of you working on this," she said forthrightly.

"He's dead, Mum," Sherlock pointed out. "He can hardly do any more damage."

"Nonetheless," Sibyl said, and Sherlock squirmed, actually squirmed, as though he were four and being caught out stealing sweets. It wasn't "nonetheless" anything, either, John noted. Just "nonetheless".

And there was nothing he could do to stop it. Once the police had located not only Bainbridge's flat but his storage locker, Lestrade had called Sherlock back in on the case, because the man had kept everything, not just trophies. Newspaper clippings, recordings of news broadcasts, notes in codes that they were still trying to decipher – since he'd shown a penchant for working in codes. John supposed it was a mercy that he hadn't kept body parts, but the police had brought in sniffer dogs to the flat and the storage unit to check for buried bodies.

He hadn't left any of his victims there, but he had left them flung out across London. They had four more so far, and John knew it wasn't the end.

He was glad, now, that Bainbridge had chosen the bus as a way out. It may have made things more difficult, but John suspected the man never would have talked anyway. He would have sat in a jail cell until the day he died and kept his silence.

"I'm not overworking myself," Sherlock promised. "And I'm eating properly."

At this, Sibyl raised an eyebrow coolly but John nodded.

"He is." John knew this, because he made Sherlock do it and watched as he did so.

"Well, I am glad to hear that," she said. "And so you will continue to do here. I believe we could go for dinner now. I requested the kitchen make the glazed salmon you enjoy, John."

John grinned.

"Thank you," he said.

"I think they appreciate cooking for someone who sincerely enjoys eating," Sibyl replied with a smile. "Or who isn't on a perpetual diet. Come."

Sherlock and John rose to join her.

"Where's Father?" Sherlock asked and John thought it was strange that this question had waited for so long to come up.

"Oh," Sibyl said vaguely. "At one of his meetings, I expect. He should be home within the hour, most likely."

And that seemed to be that. John still found it so odd, after all this time, that William and Sibyl seemed more like flatmates – in a giant manor house – than he and Sherlock ever had. As if they moved in two separate worlds and just happened to share two children.

But it seemed to work for them, and John was no stranger to making odd living situations work. Living with Sherlock was never lacking in odd, although it was of a much different tone and he suspected that they would never fall into this same pattern. For so many reasons, not least because Sherlock had no concept of personal space with John and still had troubles with the idea that John was not at his beck and call twenty-four hours a day. No such thing as comfortable disinterest from Sherlock Holmes.

As though reading his mind, Sherlock laced his fingers through John's again and kept them there, the contact warm and familiar, until they'd settled at the dining room table.


	4. Chapter 4

"Come on, get up," John said, sitting up, tossing a pillow at the back of Sherlock's head.

"Nnghun," Sherlock said, utterly incomprehensibly and somewhat indistinctly because his face was buried in two of the down pillows, so all that was really visible was the very edge of his right cheek where it met his dark hair, which was now sticking up, curling all over the place. He managed to raise an arm and toss the pillow off the bed, then wave his hand vaguely, once, at John before letting it flop back down on the pillow beside him. They had more pillows than John thought was necessary, but Sherlock had appropriated all but two of them, which John had been using.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock reached out with his left hand and snagged one of John's pillows, curling his fist around it and dragging it toward him, releasing it momentarily before wrapping his arm around it, almost protectively.

Now John was without pillows, since Sherlock had stolen one and thrown the other, but it didn't matter, because he was getting up, even if Sherlock was being lazy. Since this so very rarely applied to his husband, John was willing to let it go. After a few more minutes.

"It's a beautiful day," he said, because he could see sunlight coming through along the edges of the drapes.

"Uhn," Sherlock said, snuggling down deeper under the duvet, dragging John's pillow from his left arm over his head.

"Are you going to lie in bed all day?" John asked. "Don't you want to go souvenir magnet shopping?"

At this, Sherlock finally rolled himself over, launching the spare pillow squarely at John's face without opening his eyes and John caught it quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid getting a face full of down and cotton.

"Your loss," John commented.

"Sleeping," Sherlock murmured.

John leaned over and kissed him thoroughly and Sherlock groaned, half in protest, half not. John slid from the bed then and ignored the temptation to throw open the drapes, because if Sherlock was actually sleeping in, this was such a rare event as to be considered miraculous, and the doctor was not really inclined to disrupt it. Too much.

John showered and dressed in time to answer the door and receive their breakfast, eating his portion and a bit of Sherlock's as well, just because he could. He did open the drapes in the sitting room, letting in the winter sunlight, which was especially bright that day. John grinned to himself and took a deep breath, feeling content and realizing it had been weeks since he'd really felt that way. It was the first time he was not worried about serial killers or Sherlock's injuries or finding someone to mind Sherlock while he, John, got some much needed sleep or was at work, to keep the detective from hurting himself even more. Since he knew this wouldn't last, he enjoyed it while he could.

Outside, the ground was white and glittering with a heavy overnight frost that would probably burn off later in the day with the light from the sun, if the temperature warmed up enough. It coated everything, the brown and dormant ivy vines that covered the low stone fence that enclosed their private terrace, the slate flagging stones that made up the terrace floor, the hand-carved wooden chairs that rested outside, three of them facing one another.

He gathered his coat and put on his shoes, making his way through the large house, which was still nearly silent at this time of day, and John was always amazed at the idea that there were far more staff occupying the house than there were actual members of the family. Only Sibyl and William lived there full-time now, of course, and William seemed to regard it more of a place to come to when he had nowhere else to be.

John wound his way through the corridors, tugging on his jacket before he stepped outside, squinting in the sudden brightness. The manor had large gardens to say the least, complete with a substantial patch of woods at the far end from where he stood now. Of course, at the moment, nothing was in bloom and the annual plants had been removed. The perennials and shrubs and ornamental trees that remained were coated in their silver-white frost, glittering in the sunlight. On one of the trees, he noted, someone had hung small red glass Christmas ornaments, just the simple balls, here and there. They almost looked like large, unseasonable cherries, catching the sunlight, coated with a thin veneer of frost of their own.

He became aware that he wasn't alone and looked round to his left to see Sibyl smiling at him, bundled in a heavy knit wrap and wool-lined gloves, her face and neck bare, although she didn't look cold. Her white hair was swept off of her head, as it almost always was, and John could see where Sherlock had got that long neck, even though he'd inherited his height from William.

"'Morning, Sibyl," John said. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"You aren't interrupting, John," she said with a fond smile. "Come, walk with me."

He fell into a companionable step beside her. He'd always liked Sibyl, from the moment he'd met her, and there had been something almost comfortingly familiar about the way her grey eyes had raked over him, evaluating, making quick assessments, sizing him up. He'd gone through this twice before then, once upon meeting Sherlock, once upon meeting Mycroft. In all three gazes, he'd found some measure of approval. In its own way, it had been a warm welcome, although she'd only shaken his hand and greeted him hello, not even kissing Sherlock, who didn't seem to notice or mind. But then, that had been in front of servants. John's own mother, upon first meeting Sherlock, had grabbed him firmly by the upper arms, looked him up and down, narrowed her eyes at him but smiled, then had kissed him soundly on both cheeks in front of John and Harry and any neighbours on their street that had been watching their front garden, all to Sherlock's astonishment.

Their slow pace took them past the ornamented ornamental tree and John gestured to it.

"Did you do that?" he asked.

She smiled at him.

"Yes. An old tradition in my family. My father's idea, actually. When I was a girl, I hated when all the plants would die – go dormant, really, but I didn't understand that when I was very young – and I disliked seeing so many bare branches. We had quite extensive gardens as well, with a number of evergreens, but those never satisfied me. Something too uniform about the colours, almost too drab. One Christmas, my father gave me a small box of glass ornaments and suggested I decorate one of the trees outside. I chose a cherry tree, which are always a favourite of mine in the spring. Every year afterwards, then, after the first frost, my sister Adele and I would decorate everything we could get our hands on, with whatever we could. But we kept the red glass ones only for the cherry tree."

John grinned. He could just form a mental picture of two black haired girls in black wool coats and white stockings and gloves dashing madly about the garden, peppering dormant plants with temporary decorations.

"A bit pagan, really," Sibyl commented. "As if to draw back the sun, or the spring."

John laughed.

"I always waited for the first snow myself," he said. "As soon as the leaves started falling, I'd check outside every morning. This usually meant about six weeks of disappointment. Then my mum would yell at me to quiet down when I'd start shouting on the first day it did actually snow. I'd want to go sledding immediately, even if it was just a skiff. My sister and I would trudge over to the nearest hill as soon as we could and spend hours there."

Sibyl smiled, crossing her arms loosely over her chest against the chill as they passed under a large bare tree and were cast into dappled shadows.

"Mycroft was never particularly interested in the snow," she commented. "He was not especially fond of the cold weather and preferred to huddle up inside and read during the winter months, although in the summers, it was next to impossible to find him, even if he were revising for exams or just reading. He and one of his friends managed to build some sort of fort in the woods, without William or I knowing – to this day, I've no idea where he got the lumber or tools or even the idea. But it's still there, although falling apart somewhat now."

John grinned at the idea of a young Mycroft doing something so physical, so hands-on, because it barely seemed to fit the man he knew now, although the fact that he'd obtained his supplies in ways that could not be traced was not surprising.

"Sherlock, on the other hand, the first time I took him outside in the snow after he'd begun walking, it was as if he'd discovered an entirely new world. As soon as he'd learned to talk, it was endless questions about it whenever it snowed: 'Mummy, what makes the snow?' 'Mummy, why does it rain sometimes when it's at freezing and snow others?' 'Mummy, how much snow makes a blizzard?' 'Mummy, why are there different kinds of snow?' By which he meant textures, but at three, he hadn't quite learned that word yet. Nothing but curiosity, that one."

John smiled, shaking his head.

"That hasn't changed."

"No, that is true," Sibyl admitted. "And I always believed he'd grow out the tendency to get himself hurt or into trouble. Most boys do."

John laughed.

"Strange, really, growing up, I always imagined I'd have girls. I have two brothers as well, but I was always particularly close with Adele. I never imagined, until the very moment Mycroft was born, that I'd have sons. I wouldn't change it for the world, of course, although I'd prefer if they were both a bit more cautious with themselves. I'm not certain where either of them got this desire to plunge headlong into danger – certainly not from their father."

John agreed with that privately; William didn't seem like a bit risk taker. But he was an engineer for a firm contracting to the military, so John could see where Mycroft may have got some of his contacts, to start.

John had wondered sometimes what it would be like to have a brother. Although, he'd sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a real sister, after Harry had started drinking and hadn't shown any signs of letting up, before meeting Tricia and finally learning what it was like to rely on someone as family. He supposed if he'd had a brother, their relationship would be somewhat different than Mycroft and Sherlock's. Most relationships were.

John heard a crunching on the path and turned to see Sherlock walking toward them, in his shirtsleeves, apparently having not at all noticed the cold air.

"There you are, John," he said without preamble. "Good morning, Mum. I want to go down to the shops."

"Dressed like that?" Sibyl asked.

"I'll get my coat," he assured her. "I was trying to find John. You two aren't secretly colluding, are you?" he added, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"About what?" John asked and Sherlock huffed.

"Why are you going round to the shops?" Sibyl asked. "What do you need?"

"Souvenir magnets."

"Sorry?"

"Don't ask," John sighed, cutting Sherlock off as he started to explain, earning a glare in return.

"Have you eaten breakfast?" Sibyl asked, giving her son a pointed look.

"Mum!"

"Have you?"

Sherlock crossed his arms – not because he was cold, John suspected – and actually looked sulky. John bit the inside of his lip hard to keep from laughing but couldn't keep the smile from tugging at his lips.

"I'll eat when we go into town," he promised.

Sibyl sighed.

"John, see that he does, will you?" she asked.

"Right."

"I knew it!" Sherlock said, pointing a finger at them. "You _are_ plotting against me."

"Oh yes, Sherlock. It's a giant conspiracy to have you eat breakfast. You always eat breakfast at the flat."

"Yes, but _I_ cook it," Sherlock sniffed.

"I'm sure we can find you something edible," John replied, rolling his eyes. "We won't be long, Sibyl. I hope."

"Unless they don't have the magnets we need and we have to drive to another town," Sherlock said and John sighed.

"I'll be here," Sibyl promised. "Go. Enjoy yourselves. Sherlock, I'll make sure your violin is cleaned and tuned before you get back."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said with a grin, swooping down to kiss her cheek and John was stunned – _no one_ touched Sherlock's violin but Sherlock, and he got annoyed when John so much as moved it, in its case, to clean around it. But he hadn't batted an eyelash at the idea that his mother would not only touch it, but handle the actual instrument.

"We'll be back shortly," Sherlock promised, completely negating his earlier words about hunting down souvenir magnets no matter where they had to go, snagged John's hand, and towed him off.


	5. Chapter 5

It was in fact just over three hours before they returned, because it had taken some convincing to get Sherlock to eat anything at the local restaurants. John had begun to suspect his husband was simply making things up when Sherlock deduced by the state of the blinds in one window of one restaurant that the cooks did not wash their hands before working.

John had eventually got Sherlock settled somewhere with decent tea and scones, because he'd been hungry enough by that time to eat as well. Sherlock had sighed pointedly but had then given in and eaten, and John wished that he could use the threat of telling Sibyl that Sherlock had disobeyed her all of the time. It was surprisingly effective.

Less so in London, he suspected. And threatening to tell Mycroft anything came with a long list of other things Sherlock thought John could tell Mycroft, in order to avoid speaking to his brother for slightly longer. As though John were Sherlock's secretary.

They found some souvenir magnets of the area that were suitably tacky by Sherlock's standards and John had to try not to laugh, in order to avoid explaining what was so funny. For a man with such good taste in clothing, he had a strange devotion to tacky decorations. Everyone had their little quirks, of course, but for Sherlock, quirks were normal. John occasionally considered that he was a complicated assemblage of quirks in human form.

They had a car come and fetch them, and it was no wonder, John thought, that Sherlock preferred to take cabs everywhere; he'd spent his life being chauffeured around wherever he wanted to go. The only difference was that now he paid for it. Privately John suspected they could easily afford a car and driver of their own, but the suggestion would probably appal Sherlock.

By the time they got back, John was getting chilly from walking around outside and was grateful to be back indoors in the warm. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace in their small sitting room and he held his hands in front of his, alternating between holding his palms towards the flames, then the backs of his hands.

Sherlock came up behind him and snuck his freezing hands up John's jumper, on his back, making the doctor jump and yelp.

"I need to warm up my hands if I'm going to play properly," Sherlock pointed out, all practicality, of course.

"Does it have to be on my back?" John asked.

Sherlock slid his hands under John's jumper around John's waist to his stomach.

"That's not any better!" John snapped.

"The core of the human body is its warmest point. You know that, John. You're a doctor. It therefore stands to reason that this is where I can best draw heat from you, although, if you prefer…" He tugged playfully but meaningfully on the waistband of John's jeans and John swatted at his hands.

"The fire is a lot warmer than thirty-seven degrees, Sherlock."

"I can hardly put my hands in the fire, John."

"I wasn't suggesting quite that," John sighed. "You know, for someone who was so insistent when we first met on being married to your work and nothing else mattering, you're very single minded about this."

"Well, now I'm married to you," Sherlock said reasonably. "So I can still do my work, but with the added benefit of not needing to wait for Lestrade for entertainment."

John snorted.

"I should hope not," he said.

"I'm fairly certain I'm not his type," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, I don't think you'd fit into anyone's idea of a 'type' at all. You're your own type, all by yourself."

Sherlock huffed but kissed John's right shoulder where it met his neck lightly and John could feel the slight smile against his skin as well. Then Sherlock pulled his hands from John's jumper, moving to warm them in front of the fire. He wiggled his long fingers, then shook his hands to get the blood moving in them again.

"Right," he said after a few minutes. "Are you coming?"

"Would I pass up the chance to listen to both of you play?" John asked.

"Only if you had poor taste. And since I have ample evidence that you do not, then you should come with me, because I'm going."

John nodded, following Sherlock from their small suite through the manor into another sitting room or parlour or something. He had no concept of the names of the different rooms or how to tell the difference between something like a sitting room and a parlour – if there was one. He had been raised in a house in which the bedrooms were bedrooms, the living room was a living room and the kitchen was the kitchen. No additional rooms for specialized things, like this one was.

It was large, square, with a polished hardwood floor that suggested it could be used for dancing, but it wasn't a ballroom. John only knew this because Sherlock had told him it was too small for that. It didn't seem small to John's eye, but given the size of the rest of the house, perhaps it was. It was lined on two walls with tall and graceful windows through which the winter sun slanted, not quite setting, but on its way. There was a polished black grand piano in the corner between the windows, currently closed and covered, and there were several chairs, which were always there, John had noted. Not really audience chairs, because they were proper armchairs, wing backs, like many of the other armchairs in the house, old but still comfortable and well cared for. John wondered if once, before television, this room was used for entertainment, music and song. The house was certainly more than old enough, although he wasn't sure how old it was. Possibly some parts were older than others.

Sibyl was there with her violin and Sherlock's, which was still in its case. She had hers out and was tuning it carefully, a faint frown of concentration on her face, her hair and features highlighted by the sun coming in from the windows. She smiled slightly when she saw them, eyes darting up for a moment, but did not shift her concentration.

To John's surprise, William was also there, sitting in one of the handful of chairs, reading a newspaper. He looked up when his son and son-in-law came in, nodding at them in greeting, which was fairly the equivalent of an enthusiastic shout from him.

"Hello, Sherlock, John," he said.

"Hello, Father," Sherlock greeted amiably, picking up his violin case and resting it on the piano, flipping it open.

"Hello, William," John replied.

"Your mother tells me you're looking better," William commented.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock replied, checking his bow pulling out his violin carefully, leaving the case open and joining Sibyl.

It seemed that would be the sum total of their conversation, but neither man looked bothered by this. William went back to his newspaper and Sherlock and Sibyl began a warm up with some scales and short pieces, which John enjoyed listening to, because it was unscripted, almost casual.

After a few minutes, a maid brought in some tea, which John accepted with a thanks, holding the expensive saucer and cup carefully. William took a cup and saucer off of the proffered tray without looking at it, not seeming to be bothered by the cost, nor at all uncertain of where his hand or the porcelain was at any moment.

John was grateful for the warmth and familiarity of the tea and sipped it slowly. After several minutes of warm up, Sherlock and Sibyl went into quiet consultation about what to perform, Sherlock obviously tossing up then dismissing ideas, given the shifting expressions on his features and the quick shakes of his head at intervals.

They appeared to settle on something and set their bows to their strings and began to play.

John was not at all well versed in instrumental music from any period. He knew the big Classical artists, of course, the ones everyone did – Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Tzaichovsky. Although he also knew that technically not all of these were Classical composers. Sherlock had explained the difference to him, but John never remembered. In his mind, it was all part of that vague "from around that time", although he could not actually define what "that time" was, except for sometime before the 1900s.

He was even less aware of the more contemporary composers and, as a result of all of this, he often didn't know what Sherlock was playing. As with now.

Nonetheless, he enjoyed it. The music itself was beautiful, of course. Two perfectly tuned violins playing in perfect concert. Sherlock and Sibyl stayed in time with one another effortlessly through years of practice, and to watch them made it look so easy, when he knew it could not have been.

They let their parts dance around one another, and John was tempted to close his eyes and just listen, but watching Sherlock was so astonishing when he played, particularly when he played with Sibyl. Playing from memory – of course – he kept his eyes closed, seeing the composition inside of his mind. Sibyl, on the other hand, kept her eyes open, but was clearly seeing the same thing as her son, her grey eyes distant, focused on the music.

It swirled around John, making him smile slightly – there was something spritely about the piece, a hint of laughter in it, and he marvelled at someone who could write this into a bit of music and have it translated from paper to an actual instrument, across who knew how many years.

It seemed to make the sun seem warmer and brighter, almost as if this bringing back the summer, or memories of summer, and John felt snug and content in his chair with his tea, bathed in the sunlight, the music wrapping around him. It brought to mind the sound of children playing in the summer, outside, laughing and shrieking, but it also made him think of that mischievous glint Sherlock got in his eyes when he was up to no good with his chemistry set at the flat.

The music filled up the room, taking over all of the space, claiming the silence left by the covered piano, until John felt he was breathing it, not just hearing it. Someone had designed this room well, he thought, smiling slightly. They may almost deliberately have designed it for Sherlock and Sibyl and their violins. It seemed to suit the two of them perfectly; their duo was not too small for the large room and John imagined they could entrance an audience of any size, from a pair of listeners to a full crowd, without ever losing anything to the empty spaces or within a press of bodies.

He watched Sherlock's lips twitch into a smile and saw Sibyl smile in response. He remembered her commenting to him once that teaching Sherlock to play the violin, playing with him, was the one thing that seemed to slow him down, that let her keep up with him, and even lead the way. And they did very much keep up faultlessly with one another, as though they'd been rehearsing for years just for this moment, the notes chasing one another around joyfully.

John did close his eyes then, opening them with a grin when the piece ended with a flourish, not on a drawn out note. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, the smile still tugging on his lips. He knew John had no idea what it was, but that John didn't consider this as stopping him from enjoying it.

Even William gave a slight smile, which was high praise indeed. He hadn't looked up from his paper the entire time they'd been playing, but John got the feeling he could focus properly on both things at once. And neither Sherlock nor Sibyl seemed to mind or notice.

"Brilliant," John said, because it was. It always was.

"Shall we do something with which John is familiar?" Sherlock asked Sibyl. She gave her son-in-law a warm, appraising look. "Symphony number nine?"

John grinned. It was the first thing Sherlock had played specifically for him, almost five years ago now. He'd always loved that symphony – maybe it was a bit trite and cliché, but he did. He liked the idea that someone could write a poem dedicated to joy and that it could be set so memorably to music.

Sibyl smiled warmly at John, nodded at her son, and they readied their bows, pausing for another moment before falling into the music, once again effortlessly in time. John grinned and closed his eyes again, relaxing and letting the flawless notes flow over him in a perfect moment that combined the sunlight and Sherlock and Sibyl's violins twining expertly together, more than finding the joy that was written into the melody.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock huffed, looking through his bag, searching for something that wasn't there, then abandoning the task to root through John's bag instead, dislodging a pair of socks and then a white tee-shirt.

"Going to pick those up when you're done destroying my things?" John asked from the bed, looking at Sherlock over the top of his book.

"Why didn't you bring any other books?" Sherlock snapped.

"I only need this one," John said. "Besides, you didn't bring any. Not my problem."

"I want something to read."

"Well, download a book on your phone."

Sherlock pulled a face at John; John knew he much preferred to have an actual book in his hands, there was something genuine and tactile about holding a book, the feel and texture of the pages, the weight of it, the smell.

"Why would you only come with one book?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry? Who's the one who didn't bring any?"

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, giving John a glare, which John completely ignored, refocused on his reading, a smile playing on his lips, Sherlock could just tell.

"Besides, that's not a book, John. It's a murdered tree with bits of writing on it. Honestly, how can you stand to read that? It's utter rubbish."

" _I_ like it," John said, lowering the book again so he could see Sherlock.

"Well, I'm bored," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes.

"You have an entire library here!"

Sherlock shrugged, climbing onto the bed, crawling up slowly beside John, who ignored him. He ran his fingers lightly up John's stomach and chest and felt the muscles beneath his hand twitch slightly but John didn't look away from the novel, pointedly paying him no attention. Sherlock leaned in, nipping at John's ear, reaching for the book at the same time, wrapping his hand round it and tugging but John pulled back harder, keeping the book where it was. He forcibly dislodged Sherlock from his ear by turning his head; it was either pull away or be pinned uncomfortably against John's jaw and the mattress and Sherlock knew John would do it, too.

"I'm reading," John said firmly.

"But you've read that book a dozen times, I've seen you. You _know_ how it ends."

"And I've shagged you much more than that," John replied. "I know _that_ ends, too."

Sherlock sat back fast in shock, staring at John incredulously so that the doctor began to laugh, half rolling onto his side, but still holding tightly to the blasted book.

"Oh my god, you should see your face! Quick, give me your phone!"

"I'll do no such thing," Sherlock replied coolly. "Because you would only post it on your blog."

John curled up, pressing his face into his open book, dissolving into helpless giggles. Sherlock rolled his eyes; this was unlikely to get him what he wanted either. Now he was bored _and_ John was laughing at him.

"Fine," he huffed. "I'm going to the library. It would serve you right if I didn't come back at all."

"Gives me a chance to finish my book in peace," John said, managing to raise his head again, then grinned, giving his head a shake. He sat up and leaned forward, carefully holding the book out of Sherlock's reach, but kissed Sherlock soundly. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"You'd better," Sherlock growled.

John just chuckled and, maddeningly, went back to his book.

With a pointed sigh that was equally pointedly ignored, Sherlock slid off the bed and left the bedroom and then the small suite, making his way through the house, ignoring the staff he passed who ignored him in return – he appreciated not having to make ridiculous small talk for people who worked for his parents and that they should have no expectations about this. John always wanted to chat with them, which Sherlock found strange. Did he chat with his patients? Possibly. John was a bit like that. Small talk was tedious, though. Often talking to people was tedious, and Sherlock had very few illusions that any of staff his parents employed were like John – no hidden talents, no surprises there.

Except for Bernard, the head gardener, he corrected himself. Who still occasionally sent Sherlock small packages of seeds or dried flowers in the mail with short notes written in the man's clipped handwriting detailing some new fact about poisons that Sherlock had not previously known. It had helped him, more than once, determine unusual causes of death. He sometimes sent requests back for Bernard to grow some highly toxic and probably illegal varieties, which the man always did, without fail. And perfectly.

Probably best John didn't know about _that_. It could cause no end of trouble.

He made his way into the library, which was lit by lamps carefully crafted to look like Victorian oil lamps, casting a warm electric glow across the polished mahogany tables and glinting off the gold embossed lettering on the spines of the books that lined the shelves stretching from floor to ceiling. The shelves wound round the perimeter of the large but cosy room, broken at regular intervals on the far wall for long windows to let in the sunlight during the day, covered by heavy burgundy drapes against the darkness.

Sherlock perused the shelves, letting his fingers trail over the aging spines and fading lettering, then craned his neck back, deciding he wanted to access some of the volumes near the ceiling and fetched step ladder kept there for that purpose, climbing it easily, nimbly, contemplating the titles in the dim lighting.

He glanced down when the sound of footsteps brought his mother in and she paused, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Is it wise for someone who has recently suffered two concussions to be up on a ladder with no one else around?" she enquired of him.

"I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock assured her.

"Yes, you do keep saying that."

Sherlock sighed and selected a book, climbing back down the ladder carefully.

"I wonder if you'd be so kind as to stop worrying me by dismissing your head injuries so casually?" she asked. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but she kept speaking. "That brain of yours is a gift, Sherlock. You need to treat it with a bit more respect. And its casing. I'm aware of your feelings towards the inconveniences of life such as eating and sleeping regularly, although I fail to see how not taking proper care of your body does any good to your mind."

He evaluated her quickly; was she angry with him? No, her stance was wrong for that and there was no additional colour in her face, so her heartbeat was normal, not elevated, and she'd rarely been angry with him anyway, even when he'd been younger, except for that bottle of wine he'd broken open when he was five. Anger was not a common expression in their house. Quiet disappointment, yes, so quiet that they may as well have been shouting, only it was more difficult to block out, to ignore.

This was genuine worry, though. Affection and frustration. A familiar look.

"You and John are of one mind on that," he said.

"As it should be. You're very lucky to have him."

"I am indeed," Sherlock mused. He'd often thought so and wondered if perhaps he should say so more often to John.

"What did you choose?" she asked, settling down in one of the chairs positioned near a window, set to catch the sunlight, kept warm from the cool winter's night by the heavy drapes that brushed the polished floor, casting a small ribbon of shadow beneath them. He sat across from her and passed her the book. Sibyl accepted it, arching an eyebrow again.

" _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ ," she said thoughtfully, turning the slim volume over in her hands. "This is one of your father's favourites."

A shock of surprise flashed through Sherlock. He'd rarely seen William reading anything but newspapers or engineering journals. Certainly he couldn't picture his father enjoying the story of an upper class Victorian degenerate. Or enjoying anything, really.

Sherlock had always liked the story for its darker aspect, for the examination of vice and the pursuit of obsession to any end. It fascinated him that Wilde was so able to capture the voice of a psychopath who was not particularly violent, but spiteful and narcissistic nonetheless. It seemed an odd choice of favourite for William, who was as far removed from narcissism as possible, so that his own reflection may actually surprise him with any familiarity rather than fascinate him.

"I didn't know," Sherlock commented.

"Hmm, yes, he's fond of Wilde's works. I bought this for him shortly after we met. I found it in a used bookshop, one of those dodgy little places that never keeps regular hours and that has piles of stock on the floor as well as the shelves and a coating of dust on everything. I didn't even know he liked it, I simply saw it and thought he might enjoy it."

This was another thing Sherlock had never contemplated – his parents buying each other small gifts as tokens of affection and consideration. And actually getting it _right._ John occasionally bought Sherlock small gifts, an Erlenmeyer flask, the new Doctor Who DVD sets as they came out, and Sherlock had always done the same, a new scarf, a small case for the watch his father had given him when John had graduated medical school, so that the watch would not become scratched from being tossed in a drawer. Any manner of small things, but they _knew_ each other.

Strange to think William and Sibyl might know one another as well.

"Honestly, I had no idea we still had it," Sibyl said. "It's lasted well for a cheaply printed book."

She opened it carefully, mindful of the drying glue and the yellowing pages. Inside the cover, Sherlock saw a faint inscription, in faded pencil:

"William Holmes, from Sibyl Barnes, 1967."

A year before they'd been married, three years before Mycroft had been born, a decade before Sherlock's own birth, with two lost children between them.

"Enjoy the book, darling," Sibyl said, rising and returning it to him, leaning over to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

Sherlock waited until she'd gone and then climbed the ladder again, knowing he was not going to suffer any dizziness and fall despite her worries, and returned the book carefully to its place. For a cheaply printed book, it had held up remarkably well over the nearly half century it had been since Sibyl had bought it. With any luck, and further care, it may last even longer. He wondered if she'd even considered how long it would keep when she'd purchased it, or if she'd simply bought it, given it to William, then forgotten about it.

He climbed back down the ladder and went to find John, because he had no book to read now, and was in immediate danger of growing bored again.


	7. Chapter 7

John awoke in a moment of imbalance, uncertain of where he was, trying to get the bits of the room he could make out to fit into their room in the Baker Street flat, but the dimensions in the darkness seemed wrong, everything seemed out of place, and his vision was half obscured by Sherlock in any case. With a flash, he remembered they were at the manor house in Buckinhamshire, not in London, and reality reasserted itself a little better.

He blinked away the remnants of the nightmare that had chased him back into consciousness – one of those bizarre, uncomfortable mixes of memories patched together combined with events that had never happened. In this one, the time they'd lost Tricia, literally lost track of her while trying to clear a bomb site, and a wall had collapsed, bringing down nearly half a building, and John had only just managed to swallow on the panic, and they'd found her anyway, sheltered by another partially collapsed wall, bandaging and soothing a young woman who was too terrified to leave her hiding place. In the dream, Sherlock had been there, one of those weird dissonant unrealities where John had known him but Sherlock had treated John like a stranger, even though they'd been in the same unit, and his skin had been tanned the way John's had, and someone had set off another bomb, and John suddenly hadn't known where Sherlock was, where Tricia was, where anyone was, and couldn't breathe or think or see or feel.

He drew a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly, feeling his heartbeat calm as well, letting the dream fade away as reality returned – there hadn't been another bomb, Sherlock hadn't been there, John hadn't been injured that day. And now he was safe, with Sherlock tangled all around him, so that John understood where the trapped feeling in his dream had come from. But now that he was awake, he appreciated it, snuggling up a bit closer and Sherlock responded by wrapping his arm a bit tighter around John, giving a small sigh.

John lay awake for awhile, just listening to Sherlock breathe, his head against Sherlock's shoulder so he could feel his husband's heartbeat, only faintly, against his own skin. He'd read somewhere that newborn babies slept best being able to hear a heartbeat, since it was the predominant sound in the womb, and wondered how much that stayed with adults.

He stayed that way, content, no longer really tired, but not because of the nightmare, which had faded away. There were times when old habits from Afghanistan – like being able to wake up fast and stay up in the middle of the night – crept back up on him, and they were far less useful here, although occasionally so on Sherlock's cases.

After awhile, he began to feel restless and shifted a bit, Sherlock shifting in response, and John sighed, flexing his feet to stretch his legs, then arching his back a bit.

"Sherlock, I need to get up," he whispered.

Sherlock murmured something, let him go, and rolled easily onto his back, pulling part of the duvet with him, sinking into the mess of pillows he'd hoarded for himself. John smiled to himself and shook his head. For a man who complained on a regular basis about having to sleep, Sherlock certainly made himself comfortable when he did so.

John slipped from the bed, dressed in the darkness, and let himself out of the rooms silently. He wanted a walk, but it was far too cold and dark outside, and the house was at least kept dimly lit in the middle of the night, although John wasn't sure why. He had no idea what William and Sibyl's habits were, of course – it was possible they were both awake now, doing whatever it was they did when no one was around and it was three in the morning, and he supposed there might be some staff up, like the cook. Did the cook have to feed all the staff as well? John had no idea. The whole thing struck him as so strange. The cooks in his unit were always up before John had been, at least when he'd been up at his regular time, and he remembered Jamie saying they were up even before the mechanics. There had been a never-ending rotation to feed everyone, of course, given that schedules were subject to drastic changes without warning.

He had to admit, the food here was much better.

He wandered about for some time, hands in the pockets of his jeans, not running into anyone, thinking vaguely about nothing, about the house in which he found himself, wondering where art pieces he passed had been purchased, by whom, how old they were, wondering who some of the subjects of a few paintings were, wondering what it was like to grow up in a house that had been inhabited by the same family for generations. He doubted Sherlock had ever thought about this, but John considered that it was a bit strange to try and lay claim to a room or a space that had belonged to so many people before and would doubtlessly belong to more people after. But Sherlock would say John was sentimental and that this wasn't his home anymore anyhow. John still considered his mother's house a bit of home, where he'd grown up, and probably still had things stashed there he'd forgotten about.

He came to a small conservatory that would look out onto the gardens, had it not been the middle of a winter's night and the light drapes had not been drawn. It was warm, despite John's first impression that it wouldn't be due to the number of windows, but it was obviously heated and his in-laws could easily afford proper insulation and expensive windows that kept the outdoor temperatures firmly outdoors.

John settled into one of the wicker chairs padded with thick cushions and enjoyed the silence. It was quiet and still here in a way London never was, of course, because of the perpetual traffic, the hum of the city that never actually stopped. He drew a deep breath and leaned his head back, closing his eyes – no quiet like this in Afghanistan, either, and if there had been, it meant something terrible was about to happen.

He was drowsing in the chair when the sound of soft footsteps made him blink himself back awake and he saw Sibyl watching him with some concern, wearing the same long knit wrap she had been earlier in the day, the dark brown wool draped over her shoulders, her hair still swept up. She was dressed differently than earlier, though, less warmly, since she was not outside, in a pair of off-white linen pants and a simple white cotton shirt.

"John? Are you all right?" she asked softly.

"Oh, yes," John said, blinking away the vestiges of half-sleep. "I just needed to move around a bit, then dozed off here."

She gave him a quick, very motherly evaluation and John wondered if this was something that was taught, because he'd seen Tricia pick it up after Josephine was born, although it was intensified somewhat in Tricia, since she was also a doctor.

"Where you having troubles sleeping?" she asked, slipping inside, settling into a chair, and John chuckled.

"A bit," he said. "Some nightmares. War stuff. It's normal."

At this, she raised an eyebrow and he was so reminded of Sherlock that he could see precisely where the man got his expressions from.

"It must be difficult," she commented.

"The nightmares? Not so much, not anymore," John said. "At first, yes, absolutely. You get used to it."

"Seems like a terrible thing to which to adjust."

"Not the dreams so much," John said. "I've always had vivid dreams in any case. In the end, they're just dreams and I've learned to forget about them pretty quickly by now. But are you all right? You're up late – or early, I suppose."

Sibyl gave him a smile.

"I presume you're familiar with Sherlock's sleeping habits?" she asked.

"Or lack thereof," John replied.

Sibyl raised an eyebrow in agreement.

"He does get that from me," she said. "Never really seen the point – so much wasted time sleeping, it seems almost a tragedy. Our lives are so short as it is, in comparison to so many other things, why have that time stolen from us? William, on the other hand, is quite punctual. Seven hours and fifteen minutes every night. Had I ever had need of an alarm clock, I could have used him instead. He's always put up with my tendency to wander about in the middle of the night."

John chuckled and was surprised. He'd never really considered he might actually have something in common with his father-in-law.

"It's a bit of a useful habit, too, being a mother. Or it was, when they were both small. I never quite felt that lack of sleep most mothers of young children complain about. Although Mycroft was at least a decent sleeper."

John smiled at the idea that Sherlock never had been – this was not in the least bit astonishing. He doubted the words "easily managed child" had ever applied to his husband, no matter what the circumstances.

They fell into a companionable silence for a few minutes before Sibyl spoke again.

"May I ask, do you still have friends overseas?"

"Oh," John said. "Yes, some. A lot of them have come home now, but some have gone back on a second or third tour by now."

"I imagine that must be more difficult than the nightmares."

John let out a deep breath.

"Yes," he admitted. "It's like – well, I think it's a bit like having a child, actually. Always wondering if they're going to get hurt or killed, always worrying about them, always with that little niggling voice telling you the worst could happen."

"Oh yes, that summarizes part of motherhood quite well."

"It's easiest just to assume they won't come home," John admitted, hating to say it, but it was true. "Less – hopeful tension, I guess, that way. That way, when they do, it's like an added bonus."

"I cannot imagine it makes it any easier when they don't return," Sibyl commented gently.

"No," John sighed, shaking his head. "No. It doesn't. It only makes it slightly easier dealing with them being alive down there. That's all." He paused, thinking of people he still knew serving in Afghanistan and some even in Iraq, if their tours had taken them there instead, and those who had come home, both alive and in coffins. He thought of graves filled with people who had died too young – both here and abroad, because it didn't just apply to those who were in uniforms, but the people who lived there who were caught in cross-fire and who had just been trying to live their lives, who were really blameless or maybe not, but didn't deserve an early death anyway. He thought of all the people who had lost family members too soon, parents who had lost children.

"Do you miss them?" he asked suddenly, without intending to.

"Who?" Sibyl enquired.

"The other two– your other two sons."

Then his brain caught up with his mouth and his eyes widened and John clamped his jaw shut before forcing himself to say:

"Oh god, I'm sorry, that wasn't appropriate. I shouldn't have asked."

Sibyl gave him a surprised but patient look.

"It's all right, John, I'm not offended. I chose to tell you, after all. And it's been forty years now. It's a long time when it comes to memory. Do I miss them? Yes and no. They were never fully formed as people in my mind, you know, it was still a bit too early for that to have been set, at least for me. I believe what I miss the most is the potential. Back then, I thought of them as lost infants, which is what they were and will always remain, but now it's less urgent, and I tend to think more of how they may have been, had they survived, grown up. Who they would be now, if there were a now for either of them. Of course, I have no answers, because who can possibly tell? In some ways, Mycroft and Sherlock are so different as to be complete opposites, in others, what applies to one applies to the other."

She paused, looking thoughtful.

"But miss them? It's difficult to miss someone who was never quite there, I think. I regret the loss, absolutely. But I miss my sons on a regular basis, for all that they both live a little over an hour away. Although Sherlock's been much better at keeping in some consistent contact since he met you, so I've you to thank for that."

She gave him a smile and John sighed.

"Will you ever tell him?" he asked.

Sibyl shook her head.

"No, I don't think so. Mycroft knew about the second one, because he had some hazy recollections of it, more of me being in the hospital, I imagine, and he did find out about the first one when he was in university – I think he made it his business to know for whatever reason Mycroft does these things – and I told him when he asked me about it. But Sherlock – no."

John hesitated, then asked:

"Why?"

Sibyl sighed quietly, but regarded him levelly.

"Of course I was upset when this happened," she said. "And perhaps it sounds cold, but things do have a tendency to work out for the best, at least in my experience. I cannot say I'm happy to have lost two children, but I had no choice in the matter, and if this hadn't happened to me, then Sherlock would perhaps not be here. I only wanted two children, John, no more. So if things had been otherwise… It may be that you and I would not be sitting here now, it may be that Sherlock's life would have been traded for one of the others. It's not a decision I'd prefer, given all I've lived between then and now. How can I possibly imagine trading what I have for what I may have had?"

John raised his eyebrows and kept silent, thinking about that.

"I'm grateful for my sons and their lives and the fact that they are happy and healthy – within reason – in whatever way that means for them. There are far too many parents who do not have that. I know you've seen that yourself."

John nodded. With Harry and with too many of the soldiers he knew who had died in combat or from afterwards from injuries sustained while serving.

Sibyl smiled.

"This is perhaps too serious a topic for what it already a dark winter's night, John. I am happy with my life, and I am very happy that you made your way into my son's life. It's given me a measure of peace you can't imagine."

"I don't know," John said wryly. "He still manages to get himself into a lot of trouble."

"And yet he listens to you, and has slowed down for you. And regardless of Sherlock's tendency to simply be Sherlock, it is lovely to have you as part of my family as well. In many ways, we gain more than we ever lose in life."

She rose with this and leaned down over him, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead and John smiled. It was such a motherly action, and he'd seen her do that to Sherlock on more than one occasion and his own mother still did it to him.

"Good night, John. Do sleep well when you go back to sleep."

"I will," he assured her. "And you."

"Oh, I'm up for the day," she said with a smile. "I will see you later in the morning."

John waited until she'd left, then sat and thought for awhile, not thinking of everyone he'd left behind, or who had left him behind as the case may be, but everyone who had come back, whether they were close and far, and everyone else that had come into his life through those people, not least of all Josephine.

Sibyl was right, he thought.

He got up and went back to the bedroom, changing back into his pyjamas and climbing back into the bed under the warm and downy duvet. Sherlock rolled over almost the moment John brushed against him, wrapping himself thoroughly around John without waking up, and the doctor smiled, breathing in deeply, smelling the long-familiar scent. He closed his eyes, the smile still on his lips, and fell back asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

John woke up alone, but with the sense that Sherlock was still there, if not in the bedroom. There was a cooling space on the bed beside him with its mess of pillows, and John took a moment to spread out and enjoy having the entire bed to himself, grinning a sleepy grin, then sat up and shuffled out from under the duvet. He picked up the jumper he'd been wearing the day before, which he'd tossed over his bag, and pulled it on, padding out of the bedroom into the sitting room.

Sherlock was awake, sitting in the chair in front of the desk, his laptop and John's open in front of him, his phone in his right hand, a focused expression on his face. The tray with their breakfasts was sitting on the coffee table, still covered and untouched, and the curtains were still drawn over the terrace doors, even though the sun was up.

John sighed to himself, raking a hand through his hair and opened the drapes, letting in the winter sunlight. The frost from the day before was gone, although it was still cold, and John hoped that it would snow between now and Christmas. It never seemed a proper Christmas to him without at least a little snow. He wondered if Sherlock had ever made a snowman and tried to imagine his husband a small, curly-haired child pushing snow about the vast gardens. Somehow, the image didn't quite fit, but it made him smile nevertheless.

John and Harry had made snowmen at every available opportunity, trying their best even when the snow was completely the wrong texture and wouldn't hold together. Harry had once suggested pouring warm water on it to make it melt a bit, but they'd only succeeded in melting a whole patch of snow and had given up to go sledding in any case.

"We're on holiday, Sherlock. Thought you weren't working," John said, crossing the room to stand behind Sherlock, looking at the laptop screens. John's laptop was displaying a map of London, Sherlock's several emails and word documents and he couldn't quite see what the detective was doing on his phone.

"Mm," Sherlock replied noncommittally, absently.

"Sherlock," John sighed.

Without looking up, Sherlock switched his phone to his left hand and raised his right arm, stretching it up and back to rest his hand on the back of John's upper arm. To John, it looked like a wholly uncomfortable position, although Sherlock was unlikely to notice. It was one of those things he did, manipulating John's position, making some sort of contact when he was focused on other things.

John took the opportunity to check the healing wounds on Sherlock's head, pleased with their progress. The stitches were out now and they were closing nicely.

At the feel of John's fingers in his hair, Sherlock shifted and John could just about see the scowl on his face.

"John," he complained.

"Well, if you're going to work, then so am I," John said.

"You were sleeping," Sherlock protested with a sigh.

"Yes, how long have you been up?"

"Mm... three hours or so. I'm almost done. There's another body. I'm working out the notes for where it is. In code."

Of course it was in code. John felt a flash of anger toward Thomas Bainbridge and his arrogance and unthinking, casual cruelty. Even dead, he was leaving a trail of grief in his wake. John wasn't surprised there was another body and doubted it would be the last, but he was enraged that it didn't seem to end. He wondered how many more there would be, including those not in London.

He wondered how James Moriarty had missed picking up on this man, then shook that off deliberately. It was a bloody good thing he had.

"Yes," Sherlock mused and John rolled his eyes. "No, John, you tensed up a moment there and then made yourself relax. And it's a logical line of reasoning. I've been grateful more than once that Moriarty didn't discover Bainbridge, either. I've no desire to contemplate the damage they could have done together."

They'd each done enough damage on their own. More than enough. John remembered the sound of the bus hitting Bainbridge, the feel of Sherlock's arms wrapping around him, pulling him out of the way at the last moment.

Sherlock had been more conscientious since then about John's worries about him, although John knew it wouldn't last. He'd probably be good until just after Christmas, maybe New Year's, if Sherlock was in a reflective frame of mind, but these things never fully stayed with the detective. He learned them repeatedly – when Moriarty had strapped the bomb to John's chest at The Pool, when John had been trapped in the tube during that rainstorm that had knocked the power out to a good chunk of the city. But he forgot them eventually, and John knew it had nothing to do with not caring.

It was just Sherlock. John accepted it, because there was no changing it and it was easier – and much better – than fighting it.

He kissed the top of Sherlock's head and drew away, Sherlock's fingers tightening momentarily on John's arm before releasing him. John sat down and started on his breakfast, looking up when Sherlock snapped both of their laptops shut.

"Done," he said, pushing himself to his feet.

"Found it?"

"Within a one block radius," Sherlock said, joining John on the sofa, actually picking up his own plate to eat breakfast. "The police will sort out the precise details. We are, as you pointed out, on holiday."

"Glad you remembered," John commented and Sherlock scoffed, sipping his tea.

"What do you want to do today?" John asked. They'd exhausted their need to go into town, since Sherlock had obtained his tacky souvenir magnets and that was probably the last time that year that John would get him to go around to the shops that year at all. William was undoubtedly up by now, although Sherlock's need to see his father seemed to have been fulfilled by their brief interaction the day before when he and Sibyl had played for them, and at dinner, when William had actually enquired into the Bainbridge case and had even more surprisingly seemed mildly interested. John had tried to hide his astonishment behind focusing on his food, but had seen the amused look on Sibyl's face.

He had wondered what it was like to live with someone so unreadable. Sherlock could be, when he wanted to, but often his expressions were so shifting, so malleable, that John had to work to keep up. When Sherlock was interested in something, and when he didn't like something, John knew.

"Attics," Sherlock said.

"Sorry?" John asked.

"I need to go into the attics."

The attics. This was something that still astonished John. The attic in the house in which he'd grown up had been a glorified empty space stuffed with insulation and dust and probably a stray pigeon or two. Nothing had been kept up there, because it wasn't a space designed for anything but simply existing.

The attics in the manor house rambled everywhere. John was certain they extended the full length and breadth of the house and they were all packed with storage – things tucked neatly in labelled boxes, furniture, equipment and instruments carefully covered. He'd been stunned when he first saw them, convinced there were probably things up there that had been in storage for centuries. It seemed nothing got thrown away, not if it hadn't outlived its usefulness. It got put away in anticipation of the day when some future Holmes would need it and search the attics until he or she discovered precisely what was wanted.

And he'd thought the flat was full of junk.

No surprise where Sherlock acquired his packrat tendencies, then.

"What do you need from the attics?"

"Things from Mycroft's old chemistry set," Sherlock replied absently.

"What, you mean the one you broke?"

Sherlock scowled briefly.

"I didn't break it, John. I broke pieces of it. There's an important difference."

"Uh huh," John said and Sherlock sniffed at him, pulling a face, sipping his tea again. "I'm sure Mycroft would have agreed."

"He was twelve," Sherlock replied. "Twelve-year-olds do not have a sterling reputation for being reasonable."

John didn't bother to point out that a five-year-old Sherlock was probably no better - and highly intolerable to his twelve-year-old brother. Sibling rivalry was something they'd both excelled at, and John understood now that the jealousy went both ways, although Mycroft would never have admitted to it, and Sherlock wouldn't have understood it.

They finished up their breakfast and John dressed properly, tossing his pyjamas on the bed, not at all missing the small tube of lube that Sherlock slipped into the pocket of his trousers. When John rolled his eyes, Sherlock simply cocked an eyebrow at him. He seemed to have decided, at some point, to shag in as many places around the huge house as possible. He'd gone through this in the flat when they'd first got together, as well, but of course the flat was much smaller and they'd exhausted all of the possibilities within two days. John didn't like to encourage that sort of thing here, where there were a lot of staff, but Sherlock so rarely paid attention to what John was trying to imply.

They ventured into the attics and, as always, John wondered where to start. Sherlock seemed to have an idea, somehow, and set John to work on a patch of boxes that mostly contained old clothes and photographs and books which would probably never be useful again. They were like old ladies, they really were, saving bits of string and wire "just in case".

But it was pleasant, nonetheless, because he had Sherlock's company, even if they weren't talking and most of the sound came from shifting boxes and muttered "hmms" or "no, that's not it". Or sneezing due to the dust, but this was mostly John, and Sherlock admonished him that it was mind over matter, to which John responded with another sneeze. Frankly, he felt it was dust over airways, and the dust was winning. He was surprised there wasn't an army of maids to clean up here, too.

Did other old families have the same habit of storage? Probably, he decided. That's probably how they got to be so rich. They never had to buy anything, except food. Everything else could probably just be fetched from rambling attics and put to good use.

He opened a box with some photo albums and books and shook his head – probably Mycroft had taken his chemistry set years ago and Sherlock didn't know. It was most likely a lost cause but John didn't point this out, since it would fall on deaf ears anyhow.

He pulled out of one of the photo albums with mild interest and flipped it open. The pictures were either black and white or that grainy colour that spoke of them being from the 1960s or 1970s, before colour processing had really improved.

He flipped through it absently, his eyes skimming over people and places he didn't know. Lord only knew who it belonged to – William and Sibyl both had siblings, so it could be extended family. He breezed absently through pictures of an unidentified seaside, probably the Mediterranean, he supposed, since it looked like a warm shore, not anywhere in England, and he knew that Sibyl's family owned a holiday villa in southern France.

He paused when he came to scenes that looked more familiar and frowned thoughtfully, examining the pictures more closely. It looked like the gardens here at the manor, although he wasn't certain. Time and the black and white photos, which were smaller than the standard size, square instead of rectangular, made it difficult to tell. It seemed odd to him that there would be just snapshots of the house and the grounds, as though someone had had an amateur photography hobby.

It reminded him of his own family, his mother snapping photographs of everything. Did people like William and Sibyl do that?

Yes, he realized suddenly, stopping at one particular picture.

They must have done, even if only briefly, because nothing else explained the photo he was looking at.

It was the same black and white as the rest, showing the gardens in the winter, covered in snow. There were bare trees and shrubs in the background, but the focus of the photograph was two people, a small boy and a young woman crouched in front of him. The boy was facing his mother, wrapped in a dark jacket, scarf, mittens and a toque from which his curls just barely escaped, forming a fringe of black whorls. He was grinning, holding his mitted hands up to his mother, the mittens covered in snow. Sibyl was crouching in front of him, in a long black wool coat, her hands elegantly gloved in what looked like black leather, a light scarf wrapped around her neck and tucked into her coat. She had her hands up as well, holding them toward Sherlock, as if to accept the snow from him. She was smiling back at him and there was nothing but love and pride in her expression. She was much younger than John had ever seen her, of course, still with black hair that spilled over her shoulders and down her back.

John drew the photograph out carefully, flipping it over. On the back, in neat cursive, someone had written:

"Sibyl & Sherlock, January, 1980."

It was William's handwriting.

John stared at it, then shook his head in amazement.

"Aha!" he heard in triumph and looked up.

"Find it?" he called.

"Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me, John!" Sherlock replied and John rolled his eyes. "Come help me with this."

John closed the photo album and very carefully put the small photograph in the back pocket of his jeans, returning the album to the box and putting it away again. He wound his way through the maze of other boxes and furniture until he found Sherlock, who was sorting through an open box, examining the glassware critically.

"You know, you could just buy whatever it is you need," John said.

"Yes, but why?" Sherlock replied vaguely. That, John decided, was the reason for the attics in the first place.

"I also found that," Sherlock said, gesturing to the carefully covered four-poster bed some ways behind him, as if he'd just stumbled upon it. It wasn't precisely hidden, after all. It was a giant bed.

"Bit big for the bedroom in the flat, don't you think?" John asked.

"There's nothing wrong with our bed, John," Sherlock replied, appraising a beaker before putting it aside. "However, it does seem somewhat unfortunate that it's not seen any use as a bed in quite some time. The coverings will have kept it from getting dusty but should be fairly simple to remove."

John rolled his eyes.

"If you don't want to, you only have to say so," Sherlock said. John resisted the impulse to roll his eyes again – that was Sherlock, always considerate of his needs and desires.

"However, we are the only people up here, and we are currently above an area of the house that is unused. We're not at all in danger of being overheard, if that's what you're worried about."

John shook his head – he was getting used to it, especially given that they lived above Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock was, and always had been, invested in John being as loud as possible.

"Not especially an in-the-mood setting," John commented.

Sherlock looked up and glanced around.

"Worse than the alleys in London?" he asked and John started to laugh. He had a point. Sherlock gave him a quick smile and that was enough for John – the location didn't matter so much, it was the man who could get him in the mood.

"Give me a hand here," Sherlock repeated. "The sooner, the better."

John joined him and helped with the sorting until they got too distracted and tore the plastic sheeting off of the bed and made good use of it, for awhile.


	9. Chapter 9

They passed the rest of the time they had left at the manor with Sibyl, who, like Sherlock, never seemed tired despite the lack of sleep. John felt oddly better knowing that Sherlock's tendency not to sleep was in part inherited. He just somehow preferred knowing that to thinking that Sherlock had trained himself to go without sleep as much as possible. He supposed he didn't like the idea that Sherlock had conditioned himself out of any appreciation for the finer things in life – at least what John considered the finer things in life: food, drink, a good night's sleep. After Afghanistan, these things seemed luxurious beyond compare.

Sherlock, though, had taken an innate predisposition for being distracted by work and honed it to perfection so that work had no longer been the distraction, everything else had. He was much more relaxed now, insofar as that word could be applied to Sherlock Holmes, but John saw that inclination remain, too ingrained a habit to ever be relinquished.

The only thing that had ever really broken it was playing the violin. John was glad Sherlock had thought to bring his instrument, not least because he was allowed the chance to listen to two private performances which, in his mind, rivalled anything the LSO or any other orchestra in London could give. Although he wondered what the dynamic in a symphony orchestra was like. It probably didn't have the same pauses with whispered discussions about what to play and how to play it, nor the same sort of familial overtones. He supposed conductors could probably be overbearing and demanding, but Sibyl was not these things. Just quietly insistent and Sherlock actually listened to her, at least in this. She'd always be the one who had taught him how to play, after all.

He didn't quite succeed on biting down on a smile when she stopped playing, set her instrument down, and corrected her son's posture and made slight adjustments to the way Sherlock was holding his violin. He suffered these with a roll of his eyes but complied with her unspoken admonishments and, once Sibyl was satisfied with him, they resumed playing.

While listening, John thought of the photograph he'd taken, still in his back pocket. He doubted Sherlock would have remembered it being taken, since he hadn't yet been three at the time, but it reminded him of what was going on now. What kind of patience, he wondered, did Sibyl have? Not just for Sherlock, but for Mycroft, too. And they could not have been an easy pair once together.

They had lunch with her, too, in their small sitting room, without any servants or cooks or anything, which John enjoyed. Of course, the meal had been prepared by the cooks and brought up by some of the staff, but when they ate, it was just the three of them. Sibyl arranged with Sherlock to have some things delivered to the flat, which was to say that she told him that packages were being sent and when they'd arrive and he nodded along. John had to repress a smile and just appreciate how acquiescent Sherlock was.

The packages would be Christmas presents, of course, although hopefully not anything too ostentatious. Sibyl was good at not going overboard, knowing the size of their flat and how much it already contained, and knowing they did not especially need _things_.

Although, sometimes John wondered about buying all new furniture to replace the sofa and chairs that were old, although comfortable. They could probably even find things in the attics, he supposed. But Sherlock always dispensed with these suggestions, saying he liked their furnishings. They'd bought a new couch several years ago, too, after Sherlock had declared very early on in their relationship that he hadn't liked the old one, and that seemed to be that.

If Sibyl had any opinions about where Sherlock lived and how he kept his flat, she did not share them. In this, John had absolutely no idea what she thought, because she could be far more unreadable than her son, occasionally rivalling her husband. He liked to think she was content that Sherlock was content, but wondered about her friends and relatives and what _they_ would think. It probably seemed very Bohemian to them. To John, it seemed fairly normal, as much as that word could now be applied to his life, but John was middle-class. He wouldn't say there were no expectations, but they were far different.

He'd had the impression, initially, that Mycroft thought that Sherlock was just playing about and would eventually settle down and become serious and move somewhere appropriate (appropriate being large and expensive). Sherlock had settled down, but where he was, with John, and, after a year or two, Mycroft seemed to almost accept this was the way things were going to be for his younger brother.

This didn't keep him from meddling, of course, probably because Mycroft without some sort of interference wouldn't be Mycroft. John had grown used to it enough that if Mycroft ever fully stopped, John would have immediately started to worry.

John packed their bags quickly while Sherlock and Sibyl chatted about nothing in particular. This was an easy task, as they'd been there only two days and Sherlock had already carefully wrapped what he'd taken from Mycroft's old chemistry set and packed in into a box, ensuring nothing was going to move about. It would be delivered along with the packages Sibyl was sending.

He was glad she didn't insist they be driven back as well. He enjoyed taking the train, for all that Sherlock was far more likely to sprawl all over him in what amounted to a public space than he was when they went with Mycroft in one of his cars. It was actually because of that; John hated sitting stiffly for a little over an hour while Sherlock and Mycroft faced off silently – or not silently, but with a long, complicated dance filled with subtle barbs and overt attempts at guilt trips. They seemed to regard it almost as some kind of game now, but John much preferred having Sherlock to himself and having him be at ease enough to make himself comfortable all over John.

Which he was in Sibyl's presence, John noted. When John joined them again for a cup of tea, sitting on the sofa, Sherlock shifted immediately so that he was leaning against John, one arm around John's shoulders across the back of the sofa. It was less of a tangle than Sherlock might initiate at home, but John didn't mind. At least he could move enough to fix his tea.

They talked amiably until it was time to go, and John got the sense that Sherlock wasn't bored with the conversation, which he'd have classified as mundane and unnecessary with anyone else, even Tricia, even Sam, even Mrs. Hudson. John entertained the idea of telling Lestrade precisely how much of a pushover Sherlock was for his mother, but decided against it, of course, although the thought made him smile. The DI would probably just snicker, but John wondered what Donovan would make of it. She'd probably think John was lying. She had a better opinion of Sherlock now, but given where she'd started, that wasn't saying much.

They finished their tea and rose and Sibyl gave them each a peck on the cheeks, which Sherlock returned easily and John gave her a warm hug as well.

"Take care of my son, John," she said and John grinned.

"I promise," he said and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, Mum," he complained in a voice that had no real bite in it.

Sibyl gave him an amused and knowing look, then another kiss on the cheek.

"Take care of my son-in-law, Sherlock," she replied and Sherlock's lips twitched as he did not completely succeed at repressing a smile.

"I will try," he sniffed. "But I can't always account for John's actions. He's not the most observant person. Transit buses, for example, can completely escape his notice."

John rolled his eyes.

"Well, do your best," Sibyl said, and John got the distinct feeling she was extending this to John as well. "And happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas to you, Sibyl, and William. We'll ring on Christmas day," John promised.

"Do," Sibyl said and even Sherlock nodded.

They gathered their bags and Sherlock his violin and headed out of the house, Sibyl accompanying them, biding them a more restrained good-bye and safe journey as one of the staff loaded their bags into the waiting car. Sibyl stood at the entrance as the car pulled away and John looked back with a wave, which she returned simply by raising her hand, although Sherlock was not really paying attention. Leaving, for him, was just that, another action being taken, not a sentimental moment.

They were dropped at the train again and John was disappointed when they boarded to find it wasn't one of the compartment-style trains, but a regular train. They found a pair of seats in a fairly empty car, stowed their bags on the rack above them and settled down, Sherlock grumbling about the more limited legroom. In the end, he sprawled all over John again, back against the wall next to the window, long legs extended over John's, who had to sit as the seat was designed this time. It wasn't too bad, and the train ride wasn't horribly long, but John was glad when they pulled back into the station at Marylebone and disembarked. He shifted on his legs, trying to encourage the circulation to return, while Sherlock hailed them a cab.

After two brief days in the country, London seemed at once both shocking and normal. The sudden onslaught of noise was surprising for a moment, then immediately familiar, and the sensation of sliding into a cab beside Sherlock in his coat with its upturned collar, his purple scarf, his leather gloves, his suit and polished shoes, felt so utterly typical that John was surprised a moment about how accustomed to this life he'd become. If it weren't for the memories of the past two days and the photograph still in his back pocket, he would have felt like they hadn't left.

"That was nice," John commented. "We should do that more often."

Sherlock glanced away from looking out the window and gave him a brief smile.

"Next time Mycroft's work takes him outside of the country over a weekend during which we're not busy," he promised, meaning more when Sherlock had no pressing cases rather than when John was not on his once-a-month Saturday rotation.

They were dropped off at Baker Street within short order and went upstairs. Sherlock divested himself of his coat, scarf and gloves and went immediately for his chemistry set without bothering with his bags. John gave a wry smile; he'd been expecting precisely this. He left the violin for Sherlock to put away and took their bags into the bedroom, settling them on the foot of their bed.

He pulled the picture out of his pocket and risked a peek out of the bedroom door, but Sherlock was already on the phone with Lestrade, complaining about something about the Bainbridge case and John just rolled his eyes. He'd got nearly a full forty-eight hours out of Sherlock without him dashing off madly to a crime scene, and he counted that as lucky.

He pulled down one of his books from the bookshelves, one which Sherlock would never read due to him considering it another example of John's poor taste in literature, and slipped the photo in between the cover and the first, unmarked page. Then he went back to unpacking, the sounds of London in the distance, the sound of Sherlock haranguing Lestrade in the more immediate background. John smiled to himself as he tossed some clothes in the hamper and made sure he at least started a load of laundry before Sherlock had the chance to drag them out, back onto a case, again.


End file.
